Chapter 4: Verbal Wars & Stolen Glances

The air in the conference room had a new charge lately. Not the usual current of tension that followed Rhea Sloane wherever she went, but something sharper—more electric. Every meeting now felt like a chess match. Every word weighed. Every glance calculated.

And at the other end of that tension sat Damian Vale, sleeves rolled to his elbows, leaning back in his chair like he owned the room. Like he wasn’t here to fix anything—but to test her.

“Rhea, don’t you think that approach is a little outdated?” he asked one morning during a budget review, voice casual, eyes locked on her.

Rhea barely turned her head. “Do you mean ‘outdated’ as in proven and efficient?”

Damian smiled, that infuriating smile that said he wasn’t backing down. “I mean it’s reactive. Not adaptive. You’re running a ship that never turns—until the iceberg’s already in view.”

There was a soft murmur of stifled amusement from a junior associate. Rhea’s gaze sliced toward the offender. Silence fell like glass shattering.

“I prefer not to steer into chaos just to prove I can survive it,” she said smoothly. “Unlike consultants, I’m held accountable for actual outcomes.”

Ouch. Even Damian arched a brow at that.

The meeting wrapped with tight smiles and tighter jaws. Once the others filtered out, Rhea remained seated, fingers tapping the edge of her sleek laptop. She could feel Damian’s presence lingering just outside the door.

“You going to stand there all day, Vale?” she called without looking up.

“I was waiting to see if you'd explode the moment the room cleared.”

She glanced up, annoyed and amused all at once. “Disappointed?”

“A little. I’ve heard stories.”

She stood, gathering her things. “Let me guess. That I throw phones and break egos.”

“Actually,” he said, stepping into the room, “that you eat men like me for breakfast.”

She paused. Just long enough to make him wonder if he’d crossed a line.

“Then I hope you brought seasoning,” she said, brushing past him.

But he followed.

Of course he followed.

“Look, I’m not here to bring you down,” Damian said, catching up beside her in the hallway. “But I’m also not going to sit in meetings and nod like a bobblehead.”

“And I’m not going to sugarcoat my strategy to spare your feelings.”

“That’s fair,” he admitted. “But if we’re on the same team, we should act like it.”

She stopped walking. Turned.

And for a beat, the hallway held its breath.

“We’re not on the same team, Vale. You were brought in to poke holes. I was born to make sure they don’t exist.”

The way she looked at him—sharp, fearless, utterly composed—should’ve scared him off. But all it did was draw him in.

“You’re exhausting,” he said with a quiet laugh.

“And you’re annoyingly persistent.”

They stood there for a moment, just looking at each other. Neither willing to retreat first. Neither willing to admit what they felt in that space between arguments.

And Rhea hated—hated—how aware she was of him. Of the way his sleeves hugged his forearms. Of how his cologne lingered just faintly enough to tease. Of how he never raised his voice, but still made himself heard.

At night, when the office emptied and the hum of ambition dimmed, she sometimes caught herself thinking about the next time he’d challenge her.

It was ridiculous.

Infuriating.

Worse, it was distracting.

And yet—when she found herself alone in the elevator two days later, and the doors slid open to reveal Damian holding two coffees—she didn’t stop him from stepping in.

“You don’t even know how I take my coffee,” she muttered.

“I guessed,” he said, handing her the black, no sugar. “Because you strike me as someone who doesn’t need sweetness.”

She raised a brow but took the cup.

“For the record,” he added, sipping his own, “you were a little off your game in yesterday’s strategy session.”

“I was bored,” she shot back.

“Or distracted.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I wasn’t. Just… observing.”

“You do that a lot.”

“It’s part of the job.”

“And yet you still haven’t figured me out,” she said coolly.

He didn’t reply at first. Then, softly: “No. But I’m starting to.”

The elevator pinged. Doors opened. Rhea stepped out first, heart betraying her with its extra beat.

He was getting under her skin.

Worse—she was letting him.

Later that day, she sat alone in her office, sipping from the same coffee he gave her. The taste was bitter. Uncompromising. Just how she liked it.

So why did it feel so different now?

Why was it that every time he challenged her in a meeting, her mind raced not with rebuttals—but with memories of stolen glances and elevator silences that felt too loud?

Because for all her armor and arrogance, Rhea Sloane was still human.

And Damian Vale was becoming a problem.

A problem with perfect timing, undeniable

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